ious enthusiasm for the girl whom
he had met about half-a-dozen times in his life, and of whom he knew
little more than that she was the daughter of a "brother clergyman;" for
both Mr. Beecham and he were in the habit of using that word, whether
appropriate or inappropriate. This was the explanation of the white
necktie and the formal dress which had puzzled Ursula.

Horace Northcote was not of Mr. Beecham's class. He was not well-to-do
and genial, bent upon keeping up his congregation and his popularity,
and trying to ignore as much as he could the social superiority of the
Church without making himself in any way offensive to her. He was a
political Nonconformist, a vigorous champion of the Disestablishment
Society, more successful on the platform than in the pulpit, and
strenuously of opinion in his heart of hearts that the Church was the
great drawback to all progress in England, an incubus of which the
nation would gladly be rid. His dress was one of the signs of his
character and meaning. Strong in a sense of his own clerical position,
he believed in uniform as devoutly as any Ritualist, but he would not
plagiarise the Anglican livery and walk about in a modified soutane and
round hat like "our brethren in the Established Church," as Mr. Beecham
kindly called them. To young Northcote they were not brethren, but
enemies, and though he smiled superior at the folly which stigmatised
an M.B. waistcoat, yet he scorned to copy. Accordingly his frock coat
was not long, but of the extremest solemnity of cut and hue, his white
tie was of the stiffest, his tall hat of the most uncompromising
character. He would not veil for a day in easier and more ordinary
habiliments the distinct position he assumed as clerical, yet not of the
clergy; a teacher of men, though not a priest of the Anglican
inspiration. He could not help feeling that his appearance, as he moved
about the streets, was one which might well thrill Anglican bosoms with
a flutter of terror. He was the Church's avowed enemy, and upon this he
stood as his claim to the honour of those who thought with him. This was
very different from the views held by the pastor of the Crescent Chapel,
who was very willing to be on the best terms with the Church, and would
have liked to glide into closer and closer amity, and perhaps finally to
melt away altogether in her broad bosom, like a fat raindrop
contributing noiselessly to swell the sea. It was not, however, any
feeling of